4

Words Ripped from Spencer's Head.

First I am undressing him with my eyes and now with my hands. He's shivering. This is all so strange. It's as though part of this person is no longer Floyd. He seems defeated. Maybe fragile? Whatever it is it's wrong. I peel his clothes away from him slowly. Yes I know he's been out in the cold and I know that the amount of blood covering him should alarm me and yes in a way it does, but there is cold comfort too in the knowledge that this blood isn't from Floyd (or me for that matter) and I shouldn't take comfort in that. I should be horrified. I should call someone. I should get help, but I cant. The skin under his dirty clothes isn't a whole lot or any cleaner that the filth adhering to his clothing. When did this man last wash? I ask him this, I ask him outright when he last showered and he gives me a shrug so slight that it's hardly noticeable. He tells me that when he was last here he had one.

He stinks. I thought it was the clothes but it's not. They somehow masked the stench coming from Floyd. I've met a lot of people during the course of my career and some of those people have been homeless, living on the streets, tramps, hobos… no one I've interviewed or questioned has had a smell quite as bad as this. It's almost like he's rotting. I swallow back bile which is crawling up my throat and I ask why he's not showered since he was last here and he informs me that to shower you have to take your clothes off and I've not been there to assist. I thought at first he was joking and tell him that he's probably changed his clothes since he was last here and he admits he has, but in stages. His dislike of stripping off isn't new to me, but this smell certainly is. I ask him why his friends haven't told him that he stinks and he smirks and makes that almost laugh sound and asks me what friends that would be. I don't want to mention Sam but surely he must have said something.

Curiously I didn't think last night that he did smell. Last night I suppose my mind was on things other that the vile state of Floyd's skin. I'm sure he has lice though I'll not point that out to him. I have medicated and insecticidal shampoos which I collect and put on the small tray inside the shower. His skin is pale. Like a corpse pale. The creases in his skin and his elbows, around his neck, his wrists, knuckles, between fingers and toes, the back of his ankle, down his spine – these places have so much ground dirt that I can almost peel it away. I tell him to close his eyes and I shampoo his hair. It's long, well down to his shoulders. I want to get him to wash intimate places with this shampoo, but he laughs and asks why he'd need to do such a thing and when I explain to him – gently – I don't want to make him angry – that he has an infection of something commonly called crabs he doesn't seem to care. He tells me that's fine. He tells me I cant catch it off him if I keep myself shaved.

So here we are standing naked in the shower. The bubbles have gone from the dark red they started with and then pink and now they are just normal clean and clear bubbles. I don't touch him and he doesn't touch me. We wash. That's what this was all about – getting clean – starting again maybe. I wish I knew where he's been and what's going on in his mind. He has scars I'm not familiar with one above his eye – it's like a dent, as though something punctured his face, he has marks on his arms where it looks as though he's taken a blade to his them – there's cuts and abrasions on his back and chest, upper legs, over his shoulders, and as I wash the dirt off his back I can see marks there too, small things, maybe they're old scratches… it's hard to tell, what I can tell though that wherever he's been he's not been living in comfort and he's not been enjoying himself.

So is it up to me to let my life be destroyed? Because that's what will happen if I let him stay.

I cant let him stay.

I cant let him go either.

I feel like screaming.

I wish he'd never come back.

I wish he'd never left.

I would die for him if he asked me to.

And one day I think he will.

Is that what he's back for? Is my life forfeit for some reason because of something he's done? I need to ask, but not today. Today we are going to go out for a meal. His treat.

I am so glad that this water is hot and that I have water and soap in my eyes. At least he cant see me crying.

Thoughts Torn Screaming from Floyd's Mind.

He complains about Every Fucking Thing. He doesn't like my Smell. He doesn't like my Hair… too long… What the Fuck? Well boy – I feel my lip curling slightly – BOY well Spencer you know what happens when your life becomes a bed of fucking roses don't you? Yes babes… Can I call you BABES if it's just in My Fucking HeaD? - (you get fucking scratched is what you get)

I cant remember what I was thinking. Right… he doesn't like My Hair. Well I don't Particularly Like His Hair Either. He…

Spencer.

Right so last night after I had him I Needed More. He was Sleeping and it seemed A Shame to go wake him UP just to break some of his Teeth. I went out. Some Junky Bitch Kid was selling his dick down a side street. I took that happily. I tore him open from navel to Heart. Sweet Heart Still beating as I Bit into it. So I got messy and I pretty much got off on it, and you probably think I'm some kind of mother fucking Bastard for doing this but there's only room on the Streets for So Many Whores and I only protect That Which Is Mine.

You understand that don't you?

I don't give a flying wank if you don't understand it. My Existence isn't for your fucking Entertainment. I came back didn't I? I was here when Spencer awoke. Yes the Bed was Cold, but I wanted to just sit there on the floor and Look at him. Fucking beautiful body he has.

If I had a camera or something I would snap shots of him sleeping like that and post them online for everyone to gawp at. They would suddenly realise why I have to keep coming back to Spencer. Fuck the others… and yes I did… that was like a pun – the others sort of don't count for much. This is the one I keep coming back for and this is the one I've not been told to dispatch; at least not yet.

I want to sit and hear him read to me.

I want to sit and watch that red flush crawl over his face as he realises what he's reading. He reads and doesn't actually see or hear his own words. Graphic novels are much better… VERY Graphic Novels (18 Plus; Please Show Your ID) are even better.

I had no intention of staying. I didn't even know for sure when I left last night that I was coming back again. Something could have prevented that from happening. It wouldn't have taken much, but I'll not go into that gory subject for now… you want to know about Spencer don't you? You want to know how he's rubbing soap over my back and down my spine. You want to hear his whisperings in my ear telling me that I've lost weight. I have. I admit I've lost weight which is one of the reasons I wear my clothing layered, but Spencer's put on bulk. He's not fat… hell NO… I don't mean that. What I mean is he has muscles. He's not as narrow across the shoulders. He has a scar on his leg/knee. Tells me he was shot. I tell him that's what happens when you carry weapons, people shoot you. He tells me that I have a blade in my boot and I want to slap him, but that would mean turning around and facing him and by then the impulse would have gone and I rather like the feel of those Hands which are now washing my butt.

I have plans to take him on holiday. Will he come with me? Will he want to? Does he have a choice? I love holidays with my Spencer.

Oh my commitments. I have a job to do. I have someone who is sort of relying upon me. But he can wait. I'm sure he'll be just fine. No doubt I'll get dragged into some kind of a mess because of it but I want To Spend Some Time with Spencer. Is that such an evil thing to want?

Warm towels and hot coffee. Bliss.

Out in the Cold.

He was meant to meet up with someone last night. They had agreed but no one turned up and he was left wondering why he feels surprised. 'Fuck him.' Words are muttered from cracked sore wind burnt lips. 'Fuck him.' He repeated as he hammered on the door of some place he knew he could get warm food. The door is opened by a man who probably stood over six foot six… He has a red Christmas hat on and a grin which fades quickly when he sees who's been knocking.

'You've been told before.' Is all the man says as he starts to close the door.

'Please. Just for an hour? Some soup?' The voice is whiny and thin.

'You have to be clean and dry. You know that. Why do you keep coming back?' The man again goes to close the door.

'I am!'

A waft of alcohol drifts from the young man's mouth and up the nose of the person who should be there to help and is refusing to let him in. 'I smell whiskey on you and you're obviously on something. Go get straightened out. Come back when you are. This isn't the place for you. I've explained this over and over to you.' The door slams but the young man stays standing there with his arms crossed over his thin chest. Five minutes later the door opens again. It's the tall man sans hat this time. 'Here.' He pushes out towards the young man a plastic cup of chicken soup. 'And read this.' He folds up some bits of paper and stuffs it in they young man's pocket. 'Really read it this time. If you honestly want help…'

'You know how hard it is? You know? I just keep… I try! I really try but… I get… I just.' He stares down at the watery soup. 'I'm so fucking cold. I'm going to die. I was meant to meet my friend last night. He was going to give me money and shit but he didn't turn up. I could have gotten some fucking motel room for the week or something but he never turned up. He's too busy… found someone else.' He sipped at the soup. It was salty and stung at the sores at the corners of his mouth. 'Please?'

'My only advice to you is to stop relying on friends who constantly let you down. Go… I dunno… I don't know what to say.'

The young man nodded. 'Merry Christmas then.' He turned and walked away.

The tall man who worked at the shelter stood watching the young man leave. He didn't even know his name. He knew nothing about him except he turned up every now and then sometimes high and sometimes drunk and sometimes like today maybe a mix of both; occasionally he looks bruised and battered. He always asks to come in and is always turned away. One day he'll not come back and the man who works in the shelter will wonder if the young skinny dark haired young mess of a man sorted himself out or was found dead in a back street bin. He hoped he got sorted out. He also hoped that he showed up again tomorrow.

The young man threw the empty cup in the gutter and walked towards the police station. He had one option left if he was going to get somewhere to sleep and get dry and maybe even have something to eat. He already knew where he had to go first though and so he slipped down a side ally way and picked up a brick which had come from a small wall which had long fallen over. He then walked back out and towards the police station. There were a number of cars parked up outside waiting to rush away for an emergency on Christmas Morning. He walked to one and let the brick scrape along the side. He stood and looked at the main entrance and then lobbed the brick at the police car window. It shattered into a million tiny stars of glass. He was half in the car draped over the front with his arms inside trying to relocate his brick when someone started calling him a son of a bitch and was dragging him back out of the car and escorting him finally into the warm and dry. He was so happy with the wonderful way his plan had worked that tears fell and snot bubbled from his nose.

'Name?' He was asked.

Christmas Morning.

They wrapped themselves in bathrobes and sat happily for a while in the lounge. The small gift Floyd had brought with him sat on the coffee table still un-wrapped. There was gentle classical music playing and coffee sitting on coasters next to sticky pools of stuff not cleaned up from the night before. Floyd lit up a smoke and picked up the gift and passed it to Spencer.

'Open it.' He told him.

The shaking of Spencer's hands didn't go un-noticed but Floyd decided not to ask what was bothering Spencer. He'd only lie. Spencer seemed to spend his life telling lies to Floyd. At least that's how it felt this morning. Reid carefully removed the name tag and placed it on the arm of the chair. 'I'm sorry I didn't get you anything.' He said with a smile.

'No you're not.' Floyd replied. 'Just open the fucking thing and stop making excuses.'

The Christmas paper came away to reveal a blob of yellow tissue paper. Spencer cautiously removed it. It had been wrapped carefully around a small wooden box. The top had been carved with the letter "S". At first Spencer grinned at it and then he frowned. 'Did you make this?' He asked. Floyd nodded but said nothing. 'For me?'

'Who the fuck else? Open it.' Floyd was beginning to wish he'd not bothered now. He was tempted to snatch it away and give it to someone else. Someone how might even appreciate the hard work which went into making something like that. 'Open the fucking thing!' He snapped.

Spencer's hands were trembling all the more now. The box wasn't the gift. What was inside of it was and he wasn't completely sure that he wanted to know what it was. He wanted to shake the box to give him some kind of warning as to what was inside but then again he didn't want Floyd to get angry at his hesitance. He just inwardly prayed that it wasn't a body part; teeth, an eye, a fingertip… it really could be anything and he had to be prepared to be grateful for whatever it was. He took a deep breath and pulled off the lid. The inside of the box was lined with red velvet and sitting there on it was a silver ring. It really was the very last thing Spencer had been expecting. He let out a long breath which he now realised he'd been holding and rested the box on his knee as he lifted out the ring. It had been carved all around with tiny patterns. At first Spencer thought it was beautiful and then just very strange. 'A ring?' He questioned.

'No Spencer. It's not a ring. It's a fucking seventy foot pleasure cruiser.'

'Pardon?' Spencer turned it over on the palm of his hand. 'A what?'

'It's a ring. Fucking hell Spence! Put it on… Now… Not that hand… Not that fucking finger! Fuck.'

'I cant put it on that finger.' Spencer had it balanced on the tip of the third finger of his left hand.

Floyd stubbed out his smoke on the coffee table. 'Spencer I'm not asking you to marry me, I'm telling you to put the fucking ring on your damned finger before I stuff it up your un-grateful arse.'

'I'm not ungrateful Floyd! It's beautiful. Did you make it? He held it up closer to his face to see the patterns better. Also avoiding actually putting it on his finger. Somehow doing that felt like he was signing his soul away to something dark.

'I signed up for engraving classes. The first few I made were shit.' Floyd was watching Spencer carefully.

'You did what?'

'Yes Spencer… I made you a fucking ring! Does it matter?' Floyd stood and paced to the window. It was raining.

Reid stood too and held the ring tightly in his fist. 'You made this for me? Why?' He didn't mean why… he really didn't. This wasn't going well.

Floyd spun from the window and turned to look at Spencer. 'Why? Why? Why the fuck do you think? It's a fucking bonding ring… put it on. Just put the fucking thing on and stop asking so many damned questions.'

'Bonding ring?' Spencer opened his hand and looked at it again. 'Where did you get it? Bonding?' He didn't like the sound of this.

Floyd took a step forward. 'It's a Demonic Item. I made it in Hades to pull you to Me and keep you as Mine. It's a fucking Bonding Ring. Put the damned thing on. I put blood and sweat into making that. Usually they come easy but as you're not like me or S… or….' He gestured out of the window. '…him… then it wasn't so easy. Put the motherfucking thing on!'

Spencer stood with his mouth slightly open and the ring in his hand. It was feeling hot. He was sure that was his imagination but it didn't make him want to put it on. 'A bonding ring? What does it do?'

'Bonds!' Floyd howled at Spencer. 'Look the word up in a fucking dictionary! Wait… wait don't fucking bother… I'll tell you. Bond is a word which was first used in the early thirteen hundreds… it's been around a while. I thought you'd know what it means… it's something formed between a parent and a child, or between adults who've shared intense experiences. Which one suits better?'

Spencer slapped the ring down on the coffee table. 'I know what it means I want to know what it does.'

Floyd rubbed at his temples with his fingertips and closed his eyes as he thought carefully how to say what he needed to say in a language which contained the words he wanted to use. 'Spencer… it's a ring. It has no magical properties. I made it because I thought I owed you… needed to show you that… I made it with my own hands for you. The ring and the box… for you. It has your fucking initial on it. On the ring too, on the inside. An S and an F… Spencer and Floyd…' Floyd sat down on the couch and groaned.

'S.' Spencer sighed. 'I appreciate the gesture but I cant possibly take it. I cant wear it to work. Questions… you know?'

'S.' Floyd sighed back. 'You're ashamed of what you are still? I thought you'd have come to terms with being a fag. Doesn't Derek know yet? Silly question… of course he doesn't. Sweet Derek. Hotch though – Oh Hotch he reminds me of a friend of mine. I have a friend who likes to watch what he cant have. How is dear Agent Aaron Hotchner? Spence, do you know what will happen if you don't put that damned thing on your finger now?'

Spencer slowly shook his head. He had a good idea that it would involve pain though.

'I've take it and I'll leave. I'll give it to Sam who I know will appreciate it because he appreciates all I do to, with, for him. So that's what'll happen. If you don't put it on I'll go. You'll never see me again. If that's what you want then I'll go. You're not the only fuck on the planet.'

And in the end that's all it took. Spencer slipped the ring onto his finger with a feeling in his heart that he'd done both he worst and best thing he could have done. 'I don't want… please… don't leave.'

Floyd moved over to Spencer and placed hands on his shoulders. 'Do you promise to love me and only me? Do you promise to stop whoring around? Do you promise to grow your fucking hair again? Even if I leave and I'm gone for a year or so do you promise to stay and wait? Forever if you have to?'

Spencer licked his lips. 'I don't want you to go.'

A shake of the head from Floyd. 'Not what I asked you babes. I need to know. I need to know if I'm taken again like before that you'll wait. I don't want to come back and find that box and ring hidden away and another man's sex toys and lube in my bedside drawer. I need to know you'll always wait for me.'

'Then please don't go!' Spencer knew how pathetic he was sounding. He knew what Floyd was doing. He knew he couldn't stop the ball now that it had started rolling.

'When I was here last time.' Floyd's fingertips dug into Spencer's shoulders. 'I left… you were at work… I went out for coffee. I was taken – lured would you believe. Somewhere out there in the bay is a rotting corpse. All that time you were wondering where I was, being angry with me, well I was pretty much dead. Now that's not something I can really avoid any more than you can. I can beg you never to go back to work. I can crawl behind you clutching at the hem of your pants begging you not to leave me but you will. Will you go back to work? My name will come up at some point – because it always fucking well does and you'll be standing there without my ring on your finger because you'll be too fucking scared to wear it. Spencer I'm talking in fucking circles, but what I'm trying to say is that I'll not leave unless I have to. I wont unless it is time and I need you to hand in your notice at work.'

There was deathly silence as Spencer went back over all he'd just been told. 'Lured?'

'Drugs… But they shot me in the face and took my cash.' Floyd pointed to the dent in his forehead. 'Here. Small hole at the front, but it took the back of my head off. You know how it is. Don't fucking cry.'

'I was so angry with you. So angry. I had no idea.'

'Told you… couldn't get a message to you. Couldn't do much at all. I had to wait until they came for me and they're not my best buddies. They kept me waiting. A long fucking time… then they let me heal up. And now here I am. I'm back and you're going to resign and I'm going to take you away from all of this shit and maybe… no… and yes… a holiday. Just the two… or three of us and…'

'I love my job Floyd.'

'I know you do, but you've got to stop thinking of what you want and start remembering that you accepted that ring and thus you do as you're fucking well told to do. I'll write the letter and you sign it. I'll post it tomorrow. How does that sound?'

'I don't want to resign!' Spencer tried to step away from Floyd but he was being held tightly in place.

'You have no fucking options! You…' and a shake. '…do - as – you – are – told… or I'm out of that door and showing my love to some fucking freak midget.'

A/N: I don't have a beta and so all mistakes are mine. Thank you xox